Page 11 of Just Beachy

My mother’s face goes white, so I’m very careful to keep the fist bump I’m itching to give Grand to myself.

Six

My mother is still absorbingGrand’s fait accompli when my grandmother drains the last of her wine and announces that she’s also already arranged for her car to be driven down. Then she asks if we’re ready to go see her new place.

My mother’s jaw is tightly clenched, which I assume is how she manages not to say anything. I, on the other hand, can’t wait to see Grand’s new home.

We drive west and turn onto Park Street, a lovely redbrick road lined with huge gated homes on the water and peacocks that strut back and forth across the road, and despite the yard signs that declare this part of Park Street a “Peacock Crossing,” it appears that they cross pretty much at will and without warning.

At Central Avenue, we head west going over the bridge that leads us onto the Treasure Island Causeway. After aturn onto Paradise Island, we pass several condo buildings, some nicely done green spaces, and residential streets with names like Dolphin Drive and Marina Terrace.

Ultimately, we turn into a town house community named Casas de Flores, and we follow a cobblestone street lined with trees, grass, multiple swimming pools, and pastel buildings of town houses. I catch a glimpse of boats bobbing in their slips as well as a fishing dock.

“That’s Myra’s town house.” Grand points to a corner unit in a peach-colored building of three units.

“And this,” she says dramatically as she pulls in front of a garage on the corner of the next building. “This is my place.”

“Oh, Grand! It’s so cool,” I say as we get out of the car and stare up at the façade of her unit. “You’re practically next door to Myra. And…” I lose my train of thought completely when we enter the foyer, climb the first flight of stairs, and enter the main living area, where my gaze is immediately drawn to the bright sparkle of water that lies just behind the wall of glass sliders.

“Wow,” my mother says almost reluctantly.

Seconds later we’re out on the balcony, leaning over the railing, and staring over a lawn bulging with bright flowers and a trio of palm trees to the Intracoastal Waterway, where boats of all sizes and types glide past. Some go as silently as the wind in their sails while others rev motors and blare music. It’s like a parade provided for our amusement.

Across the bay another island neighborhood shimmers in the sun, with finger-shaped spits of land that jut out into the water. Most have docks and boat lifts from which boats dangle. Pretty much all of them have pools.

“Oh my gosh! Look!” I point at three black fins—two large and one small—that glide next to one another then disappear beneath the surface only to rise again a couple yards away. “Dolphins!”

“It looks like two parents and their baby, doesn’t it?” Grand smiles, clearly enjoying the same rush of pleasure I am.

“My goodness, it does, doesn’t it?” my mother says quietly, not even trying to hide her own smile.

When the dolphins disappear from view, I tear my gaze from the water and turn to take in the main floor of Grand’s new home. Light wood floors stretch from the sliders, through the open living and dining rooms, and into the massive kitchen, where windows overlook the cobblestone street. It can’t compete with the water view, but it’s charming in its own right. With glass on both ends of the open floor plan, the space feels expansive. Everything is light and bright.

“The former owners did all this,” Grand says, motioning around the space. “And I love every bit of it. I won’t have to change a thing. Plus, all the furniture you see was included in the sale so I can live here relatively comfortably while I wait for my things to be delivered.”

Up the next set of stairs is the bedroom floor with alarge master bedroom, where painted wooden beams give definition to the vaulted ceiling. Sliders open from the master bedroom onto another balcony overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. I feel as if I can see for miles. And when I spot the three dolphins feeding farther down the Intracoastal, my lips stretch back into a smile of their own accord.

Two bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bath sit at the other end of the hall just beyond linen and laundry closets, providing another view of the cobblestones and pastel buildings. One has a queen bed and a dresser while the other has bunk beds—a queen on the bottom and a single on top.

“Well, I have to admit it’s attractiveandfunctional.” This is high praise from my mother.

Although it’s clear she’d like to, Grand doesn’t gloat. “I’m so glad you like it. The first time I stepped out onto that seawall, I knew I wanted to live here. My unit wasn’t listed, but Myra knew the owners were planning to sell. I made an offer that day.”

“And how much did you pay for this place?” my mother asks.

“Does it matter?” Grand replies. “I’m not looking to sell it anytime soon and I doubt I’m going to get hurt financially on waterfront property.”

“You realize sales info is readily available online?” my mother, the Realtor, replies.

Grand shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t stop you from looking it up, but I can’t see why it would matter. Your father left me comfortably off, and once the Atlanta house sells, I’ll be in an even better position.

“Come.” Grand smiles. “Let me show you the pièce de résistance.”

We take the stairs down to the foyer then exit into the two-car garage, where she grasps a doorknob and pushes open a door into the ground-floor “bonus” room.

The room is wide and open with whitewashed concrete walls, and an AC unit of its own. Sliders open onto a covered brick patio, a swath of grass dotted with flowering bushes and palm trees that stretch out to the seawall.

“This,” Grand says with relish, “will be my studio. And that”—she nods toward the water—“will be my inspiration.” She smiles. “And with the Gulf just a little over a mile away, I can walk to the beach. Or drive and set up an easel anytime I like.” Her smile deepens. “Surely you can see why I couldn’t pass it up.”

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